


Halloween 2015 Prompts

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Allergies, Angelcest, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Costumes, Demon Dean, Dubious Consent, F/M, Grace Sex, Grace-Powered Orgasms, Human Castiel, Jealousy, M/M, Purgatory, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 08, Skeletons, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt replies to Multi Shipping Rocks' 13 Days of Halloween Challenge on Tumblr.</p><p>Updated Mar 31, 2016:</p><p>Ch. 10 - Crowley/Castiel - Costumes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Wicked This Way Comes - Crowley/Lucifer - Mature

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [MultiShippingRocks](http://multishippingrocks.tumblr.com)' 13 Days of Halloween prompt challenge. (Spoiler alert: I didn't manage to write all 13. But I *did* manage 10, which is better than I thought I'd do!)
> 
> Prompt: "Something Wicked This Way Comes"  
> Pair: Lucifer/Crowley  
> Warnings: Dubcon, blood, blood drinking, death (not a main character), Creator/Demon power dynamics, Grace-smut

Crowley's leather shoes tap cement beneath the overpass. His mouth is wet from a fresh deal. One more soul in the bank; a productive evening. Lilith would be pleased if...well, spoiled milk.

Crowley stops and cocks his head. The hair stands up on the back of his human's neck. He smiles, intrigued. “Something wicked this way comes…” 

Electricity pulses around Crowley’s vessel. It blows out a streetlight on the corner.

A voice purrs in Crowley’s ear. “Let me in.” Crowley feels the breath of the Fallen. Corruption washes over him like evening rain. 

A second whisper. “Let me in.” 

Crowley does not speak, but he shakes his head ‘no.’ In a roar of fury, the Devil departs. The light of Morning fades to shadow.

Minutes tick by. Crowley waits.

He could run, sure, but it would be futile. Crowley's safe house is warded against angels, but sigils will not keep the Creator out for long. Lucifer may be bound by the laws of Heaven, but Crowley is limited by Lucifer’s design.

Besides, maybe Lucifer has not learned the location of Crowley's hideaway yet. Perhaps, for another week, Crowley can continue to scheme without suspicion. Blasted Winchesters. The plan may be over before it begins with those inept morons at the helm!

Footsteps click on pavement. Crowley turns to greet a man that is not Sam Winchester. This meat suit is unknown to Crowley. An appetizer, perhaps?

Crowley nods his greeting. “Sir.” His attempt earns a disapproving frown. “Master?” Crowley tries.

The vessel tsks. “You’re all my children, demon.”

“Crowley,” he corrects. With a humble smile, of course. “ _Father_.”

Crowley sees the appeal of this vessel. It is long and lean; attractive in its own way. But there is an air of tragedy about this body. Lucifer is drawn to tragedy, misunderstood thing that he is. Crowley coughs to cover a mocking snort.

The Morning Star approaches. Crowley tenses. Perhaps the Creator already knows Crowley’s plot. He is, after all, the master of their race. But, were Crowley’s treachery known, would he still be alive? Crowley has to trust that the answer is no. 

The Devil stands before him, narrowed eyes and a tight smile. “A crossroads demon,” he observes.

Crowley nods. “King of the Crossroads, actually.”

“King.” The word dribbles, derisive, from Lucifer’s lips. “A confidant of the Final Seal. I owe you thanks, child.” ‘Child’ stings like a smack across the face. Crowley swallows back a scowl.

But the promise of gratitude intrigues Crowley. He likes to be owed things, especially by beings more powerful than himself. “What can I do for you, Father?”

“I’ve taken a vessel below my standards,” Lucifer says. “It needs to eat.”

Crowley steps back. Nourishment, for an inadequate vessel, means demon blood. Crowley is filled to the brim, but not for long if the Devil takes him.

Lucifer smiles knowingly. “Bring me a snack,” he says.

This, Crowley is more than happy to do. He has no interest in bowing to an archangel. But demons, in general, are a stupid lot. Crowley will not fret over tossing an idiot to the wolves.

The unfortunate sod’s name is Darrell. His end is grotesque, even by Hell's lofty standards.

Crowley revels in death and destruction. Chaos is beautiful. Pain, moreso. But Darrell’s demise is an exquisite mess, even Crowley cannot watch for long.

Lucifer breaks the fool's neck like a late autumn branch. Darrell's body rips open with an easy crunch of teeth. Sighing his pleasure, Lucifer drinks from his skin. Disgusting. Beautiful, in its own way.

Lucifer drinks until the demon's body is spent. He wipes his bloody mouth on his arm. “You denied me,” he says.

Crowley lowers his head. “My body is not strong enough for you-”

“It’s good enough for you. _King_.” 

His final word swells everywhere. Uttered by a human mouth, but the sound echoes off the fiber of Crowley's existence. It burrows into his ears and trembles through the demon beneath.

Crowley chews his cheek. “I…cannot fathom you, Father.” It’s true. He cannot.

Crowley despises angels, Lucifer above all. The Devil abhors the creatures he created. He will destroy the demon race in favor of the Heaven he’s lost. Of this, Crowley has no doubt.

Still, power thrums from the archangel like waves at high tide. Crowley, starved for strength, can't help but be drawn to him. 

Currents of Lucifer's grace fill the space between them. Crowley squints through the flare. Lucifer’s vessel is a shadow, surrounded by the light of his true nature. His eyes burn like torches.

Every instinct tells Crowley to run. There is power to be craved, and power to be feared. Lucifer's is beyond his comprehension. Crowley cannot protect himself against strength beyond his understanding. He needs to be far from here, immediately.

His retreating steps freeze when the light embraces him. Essence slithers, possessive, between his legs. Crowley gasps. His open mouth is filled by the Devil’s power. Grace stretches his lips like unseen fingers. It bites at his chest and carves nails down his back.

“You’re right,” Lucifer says, calmly. “You can’t. And you can’t say no to me. Understood?”

Everything tightens; invisible coils around every limb. Pain and pleasure loop around Crowley's neck. "Yes, Father," Crowley croaks. 

Lucifer rewards him with grace between his thighs. An electric caress stretches Crowley’s legs. Crowley’s cock throbs in the front of his slacks. His own nails puncture the insides of his palms. 

Lucifer picks at his own shirt with boredom. "I think I’ll keep this vessel,” he decides. He examines the body of the dead demon at his feet. “For now.”

He approaches. With every step, the world seems to lurch. Crowley stands firm, but his eyes tear as the light burns around them.

It is obvious now: Lucifer’s vessel is not strong enough to last. Power oozes from him, uncontrolled. His human's hands have begun to blister.

Lucifer sets these broken hands on the lapels of Crowley’s jacket. “I’m new to this body,” he says. “Welcome it.” Crowley frowns. At his confusion, Lucifer pops a finger against his jaw. “Go on,” the Devil coaxes.

Unsure, Crowley kisses Lucifer’s chin. Lucifer turns abruptly and catches Crowley's lip between his teeth. 

Crowley hisses when he tastes blood. His inner devil delights, crooning for more. 

Lucifer grips his jaw and forces him to turn. Drinking his blood, Crowley realizes with alarm. He tries to pull back, but the arms around his body do not allow him. Like ice, binding his back.

Even as he weakens, Crowley’s inner demon writhes. Pain, delicious pain! Crowley sags; he has lost too much blood. Impossible, from so shallow a bite! But nothing is impossible for the master of their race.

With a stroke of Lucifer’s tongue, the wounds close. Crowley's lip stitches together, and his blood dries. The only sign of injury is a stain of red drying on his chin.

Lucifer peels back Crowley’s eyelids and evaluates his glazed stare. “You’ll be of use to me,” Lucifer decides. He smiles, all affection. A boy with his pet dog. “Won’t you, child?” He rests a hand on Crowley's face.

“I will,” Crowley slurs. 

The Colt waits, locked away in his compound. Crowley will start spreading the word. Even those imbecile Winchesters will catch on eventually. Crowley has to start tonight.

Another meeting like this with the Creator will ruin him. Another meeting like this…

Lucifer’s eyes lock on Crowley’s, and his thoughts evaporate. The Devil thumbs his cheeks. Kisses his forehead. The bridge of his nose. Crowley sighs towards his mouth. What was he thinking again?

“Let this be our deal, King.” Lucifer tests his own repair work, plucking Crowley’s bottom lip with his thumb. Crowley's grace-stitched mouth springs back into place. “This is how you seal your deals, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Crowley replies. “Though…a kiss isn't enough, for one like you.”

Lucifer’s head tilts. The pointed end of a tooth peers under his curled lip. “Is that so?”

“A kiss seals the deal for a human,” Crowley explains. “But for one like yourself, the bond requires a more…intimate signature.”

“As intimate as Lilith’s?” Lucifer wonders.

Crowley falters at the insinuation, but he forces his expression to hold. “Lilith offered her own life, alone. A deal of this nature requires…equal willingness between two parties.” Lucifer raises a brow. Crowley smiles. “I’m happy to waive this fee, Father.”

“Of course you are.” Lucifer's hand flattens on Crowley’s stomach. It slides down closed shirt buttons to the front of Crowley’s pants. He drumbs fingers along the zipper of his crotch. One by one, taps of pressure. Something shoots through Crowley, hot and immediate. Crowley hisses. The surge of power turns pleasure-warm in his belly.

“You’re an interesting thing, aren’t you?” Lucifer muses.

“I'll be whatever you want,” Crowley breathes. The words trip like he’s drunk.

Lucifer looks at him, considering.

His deliberation ends with a step back. “I can’t think of anything more disgusting than fucking a demon,” Lucifer says. “Ugh, a demon who _whores to humanity_.” His mouth pulls, as if tasting something sour.

Crowley bites back his own snarl. “Yes, Father.” He presents a calm face; vacant, pleasant.

“Your reward for assisting Lilith is your life.” Lucifer smiles, but his eyes glint a dangerous gold. “For now.”

“Thank you,” Crowley says. His gratitude falls on empty space. Lucifer is gone. Crowley stands alone, arousal thick in his slacks. 

Crowley wipes his kiss-wet mouth with the back of a hand. Still alive, for now. And there is much to do. A gossip mill to begin, idiot brothers to lure.

Lucky for Crowley, the night is still young. 

*The End*


	2. Autumn Foliage - Dean Winchester/Benny Lafitte - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble written for Multi Shipping Rocks' 13 days of Halloween Challenge.
> 
> Prompt: "Autumn Foliage."  
> Dean Winchester/Benny Lafitte  
> Warnings: Sexual content, blow jobs, blood and death imagery

There are seasons in Purgatory. 

The setting remains the same; it's like they're walking in circles. A tangle of trees, patches of open sky between gnarled branches. 

But the leaves change. Budding, blossoming. Then drying, falling. It's a cruel reminder. Above ground, life goes on while they rot away. Down here, it’s just kill or be killed. The engine never stops. Day and night; little sleep and even less to eat.

The leaves live and die. The dying is the worst.

Benny talks about the damn crack in the fabric all the time. It exists, he insists. They've got a way out of here. For all three of them, if they ever find Cas. If he’s even still alive.

Dean's anger is riled by the crunch of leaves under his boots. He kicks at the dead things. Curses at a sky he can’t see, all knotted branches and dry leaves.

Benny doesn’t give him guff. He just curls his lips and whistles. That familiar tune; it's time to go to work. Dean hears Benny before the footsteps or gnashing teeth. More chompers.

Dean goes for the neck. It’s over quick. 

In the aftermath, Dean slumps on a stump and catches his breath. Benny searches out something with enough meat to feed him. Squirrel, rabbit, or rat? Whatever, all tastes the same. 

Benny turns meat on the spit. Dean wipes the blood off his face. Wipes his mouth again. Wipes even when there’s no more blood to clean. 

Cold sweat rolls down the back of Dean’s neck. They’ll never find Cas, they'll never get out of here. 

Red leaves pool on the ground like blood. The chompers don’t bleed red, but Dean sure will. Leaves die, like Dean’s dying. There’s nothing Dean can do about it.

When Benny comes by to check on him, he drops his forehead on Benny's thigh. “You ok, chief?” Benny murmurs. 

Dean sets a hand high on Benny's leg and rubs his face against the front of his pants. Smells like dust, earth, and _him_. Dean closes his eyes and nuzzles his crotch with his mouth. He exhales against the denim, like a sob without tears.

“Didn’t mean this when I asked if you were hungry.” Benny sounds amused, and a little worried.

Dean slips off the tree trunk. His knees crunch on leaves, dead things all around him. He unzips the front of Benny’s pants and eases him out. Half-hard and pink. Dean licks at the top, closes his hand around the base.

He follows Benny’s length with his tongue. Weighs him, sizes him out. 

Benny gets thick on his lips. “You sure?” Benny asks.

Dean laughs, a little crazy. “Don’t ask me that, man.”

Benny hums, he gets it. He's gotten it since they first found each other.

Dean takes him in. Weight of arousal on his tongue. 

Doesn’t mean anything. Around them, everything keeps right on dying.

*The End*


	3. Pumpkins and Apples - Crowley/Gabriel - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Day 3 of Multi Shipping Rocks' Halloween Prompt Challenge!
> 
> Crowley/Gabriel  
> Prompt: Pumpkins ~~or~~ AND Apples  
>  Warnings: Explicit sexual content, grace powered smut

The pumpkin is a good five feet in diameter. Like a truck wheel, plump and orange. Its stem juts out like - well, something inappropriate for the kids circled around the thing, ooohing and aaahing. The chap who grew it boasts a 1st place ribbon on his flanneled chest.

“Amateur,” Crowley scoffs.

Amused eyes tick his way. “Seen bigger?”

“Much!” Crowley crunches into his candied apple. “Odd place to meet,” he notes.

“Bars and motels more your speed?”

Crowley’s rolls his eyes. “Penthouses, preferably.” He grumbles around another apple bite. “This isn't a holiday your type should enjoy.”

“Oh, I don’t know," the angel says. "Pagan holidays have their charms.”

“Yes.” Crowley’s gaze flits about as the little ones scurry into the pumpkin patch. The pumpkin collection, large and small, is made up of produce from the neighboring farms. Impressive for a community of its size, orange as far as mortal eyes can see. “How are your friends at the Elysian Fields these days, Loki?” It’s the name the angel tried to get over on Crowley. The one that worked once or twice, sure. Got the beast into Crowley's bed anyway. 

But Crowley knew soon enough. Resourceful as a trickster god may be, its power would only stretch so far in this world. No, what Crowley was dealing with wasn’t a pagan god. It wasn’t even a bargain basement angel!

Quite the conundrum, when Crowley learned the truth. The archangel could kill Crowley with a snap of his fingers. But he was also fantastic in the sack…

This isn’t their usual back alley meeting, the hidden archangel and the King of the Crossroads. A change should be welcome; their routine was getting dull. But this is all rather trite, especially given their current slew of problems: Lucifer, the Horsemen, the damn Apocalypse. And those idiot Winchesters, who still haven’t managed to follow Crowley’s trail of breadcrumbs.

Loki, nay - Gabriel, shoots him a ‘don’t start’ look. But he grins when Crowley bites into his caramel-lathered fruit again. “Demon with an apple. My bro’d be proud.”

Crowley snorts. “You know it was a quince. Don’t be daft. And,” a cursory glance around, “I don’t give a damn what your brother thinks about anything.”

Gabriel looks out over the field. Tall standing grasses are littered with pumpkins. Human brats scream and dart to and fro. “I like pumpkins,” he says. “Maybe I’ll do a jack-o-lantern this year. Predict the final battle scene or something.”

Crowley takes his final bite of the apple. Done, he flicks the core away with a wave. “You’ve met the Winchesters,” he grouses. “Are they always this friggen stupid?”

Gabriel smirks. “Worse, actually.”

“Wonderful.”

Tents border the pumpkin patch, selling the candied apples, pumpkin treats, and other delights. 

“Is this our last hurrah?“ Crowley asks.

"Depends how fast everything goes. Luci’s already taken a vessel. Not the right one, but he’s getting close.”

Crowley glares at him. “Yes, in other words. But instead of a more intimate setting, you cart me out to a bloody pumpkin fest.”

Gabriel’s eyes brighten. “There’s a corn maze too-”

“The world is ending, there are things to do!”

“Yeah.”

Everything changes. Nighttime. Field. Oak barrel. Two glasses of Cab Franc. Moon. Stars.

Gabriel pulls Crowley’s shirt from his pants. While he unbuttons it, Gabriel licks a path up his throat. Crowley frowns, looking around. “Trick?”

“Or treat?” Gabriel grins.

“Is this one of those games where it seems like we’re alone, but we’re actually in the present moment? Being gawked at by snotty children?”

Gabriel shoves his open shirt and suit jacket from his shoulders. Crowley snaps his fingers. Before the garments hit the ground, a second barrel appears. The two articles fold neatly on top.

“Demon worried about corrupting the youth?” Gabriel cocks his head. “Doesn’t sound like you. Feeling ok? Bad apple, maybe?”

Terrible pun. Crowley ignores it. “My vessel is a treasure,” he balks.

“ _My_ treasure? Nice.” Gabriel’s mouth curls upward, nudging at his lips.

The slight pressure twinges through Crowley. A spark of something he used to fear. It seemed like pain once, but Crowley has come to recognize it as pleasure to his inner being. A firm stroke through the red mass of Hell. 

Crowley follows his mouth with a growl “Where do you think you’re going?”

Gabriel snaps his fingers. The rest of Crowley’s clothes are gone. Gabriel’s are not. 

He runs fingers down Crowley’s spine, over the swell of his ass. Crowley steps further apart, opening himself. His arousal already hangs heavy against Gabriel’s jeans. 

Crowley smirks and cups a casual hand around the front of Gabriel’s pants. A hot exhale bursts on his face. Amused, but not ‘no.’ “Was this your big plan?” Crowley wonders. “Fuck me over a friggen barrel in a pumpkin patch?”

Gabriel nods. “Yeah, pretty much. Brought wine too, in case you needed enticing.”

Crowley snorts. “You sacramental types. If you wanted to tickle my fancy, you would have-”

Gabriel snaps his fingers. The wine becomes a bottle of Glencraig. “What is it with demons and single malts?”

“What can I say? Nostalgia.” Crowley doesn’t elaborate. Just wanders, nude, to the barrel and opens the bottle. He pours out two glasses and lifts one for a sniff. “1975. Good year.” Crowley glances over his shoulder. “Keeping your clothes on, Gabe? Planning to screw me with Daddy’s mojo, are we?”

Crowley has always had a morbid lust for power. Put him in a bit of hot water when he was first corrupted. A Lot of “thank you, sir” and “thank you, ma'am. May I have another?” He liked to test the control of his controllers.

Best not to give an archangel ideas. But being fucked by the grace of God? It’s too fantastic a possibility to pass up. 

“What, you mean like this?”

No warning. Crowley makes a sound unlike any he can recall. Something explodes in his gut. A live wire of sensation stretches across his vessel. It burns down to the demon inside, a white hot crackle like death, only not. Right at the peak, electricity sizzling through him. A flash of light boils behind Crowley's eyes and between his lips.

Crowley does not die. But he drops his drink, bracing hands on the edge of a barrel. Human sweat and precum soil his vessel.

“You made me drop my Craig on a bloody pumpkin!” Crowley rails. But oh, he isn’t angry.

He still isn’t angry when the idiot hums, “Interesting,” and slides behind him. No clothes now. Gabriel loops his arms around Crowley’s waist.

Crowley grips the barrel. “You’ve never done that before?”

“Nope,” Gabriel shrugs. “Could’ve killed you.”

Crowley scowls back at him. “This better be a damn good screw, or-”

“Or what? You’ll tell Lucifer?”

For a split second, Crowley rethinks this whole demeaning thing.

But when Gabriel’s cock rubs against his ass, he remembers why he allows this treatment. Still, Crowley refuses to bend and beg for it. He snorts and stands up straight. Gives the angel the evil eye. “You’re the one who summoned me,” he goads. “Remember your place, angel.”

He gets a quirked brow and an intrigued smile. “My place,” Gabriel echoes. A shift, and a nudge of pressure inside Crowley. “You mean here?”

Bastard. Crowley turns away before his vessel’s eyes dilate. He feels a twinge of human pain, but it’s more fun with a little ache. Demon, after all. Crowley drags his fingers up Gabriel’s thigh, earning a chuckle that turns into a tsk. Teeth on Crowley's shoulder as his hips press on his ass.

“Are you really fucking me in a pumpkin patch - ah! Yes,” that wonderful roll of Gabriel’s waist. Sensation springs through Crowley's borrowed skin.

“Answering yourself again, Crowley?”

The damn thing thrusts into him again. “Do it again,” Crowley mutters. “With the eyes and the thing.” Perilous as it was, Crowley has never experienced anything like the stroke of Gabriel's grace inside him. He wants it again.

“What’s in it for me?”

Crowley looks over his shoulder, but he can't see much of Gabriel’s face. The angel’s mouth is too busy tasting between his shoulders. “50/50 on Hell if your brother loses out?”

Gabriel snorts. “If Michael kills Lucifer, you think Hell’s gonna be a prize?”

Crowley runs his fingers along the scratch marks on Gabriel’s thigh. All this talk of the universe ending has Crowley in a bit of a funk. Crowley lets Gabriel’s nose nudge his neck. Slides his hand around to tangle in Gabriel's hair. Fingers curl around his shaft.

“This is maudlin,” Crowley murmurs.

Gabriel smirks. “You like sap,” he argues. “You were human once, dick.”

“Lot of good it got me,” Crowley grumbles, only to choke on a breath. “Ah - yes! Again-”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“Fucking me in a pumpkin patch, you tasteless- Christ!”

Gabriel laughs, a bit winded himself. Crowley pushes his waist out so Gabriel can take him deeper 

Tendrils of blue light ghost from Gabriel's fingertips. They knead up Crowley’s back and down his swollen shaft. 

Crowley grunts under his breath. "More,“ he mumbles.

"Pardon?”

“I said ’more,’ you ass.”

A tsk. “When I’m ready.”

Gabriel will be ready when Crowley is about to jump out of his skin, apparently. The fucking is already good enough. Now, Gabriel’s grace somehow coils inside Crowley. It twists around his inner demon, tightening as it strokes. 

Crowley wonders what it would be like to be free of these bodies. Light and dark colliding in the infinite hollow of space. Smothering each other. The crackle of power swimming together, colliding into one. 

This is a taste, grace sliding inside Crowley's belly.

A flash of light cuts through the night scene. Crowley groans against his fists, clawing oak as he finishes. His eyes blaze red. The final wisps of grace spill from his open orifices as the angel fills him. 

‘When I’m ready,’ Gabriel said. Timed it perfectly, the two coming as one. How fucking Hollywood.

Crowley blinks to consciousness in an open room. The field is gone, as are the stands, the apples, and the children. No barrels, no Craig. Just a penthouse with open balcony doors, wind pushing curtains in. Fire roaring, and a set of matching black silk robes. How quaint.

Crowley focuses on the prize-winning pumpkin. The massive thing sits in front of the hearth. "Seriously?“

Gabriel shrugs. "Said I wanted a pumpkin.”

“Poor bloke’ll be devastated.”

Gabriel shrugs again. “He was kind of a douche.”

Crowley’s mouth tips upward. As unwise as this tryst may be, he does approve of the bird’s sentiments at times. “Why am I here?”

Gabriel hooks fingers in the front of his shirt. “Figured we scarred those kids enough,” he says.

Crowley’s eyes narrow. “Really?” He _said_ he didn't want those snot-nosed punks gawking at his vessel! Now, if any of them felt like selling their soul...

Gabriel answers with a short kiss. “Maybe,” is all he gives.

Crowley grumbles. He’s still grumbling when Gabriel’s mouth covers his. Crowley allows him, but he still steals a second to mutter, “Can’t believe you stole that damn pumpkin-”

Gabriel snorts and pulls him into another kiss. Crowley decides this is more important, for the time being. 

*The End*


	4. Cemetaries - Castiel/Cain - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cemetaries  
> Pairing: Castiel/Cain  
> Warnings: None. Takes place during Season 6.

Cain prefers to be alone. 

He visits the graveyard often, just past the chapel on the slow side of town. Here, among the dead, the Father of Murder finds peace, or at least understanding. He steps between the gravestones, pausing every so often to examine one’s face. A mortal's life, summed in ten words or less.

There is a chill in the air, the first crisp morning of autumn. The grass has begun to yellow and wilt. Nearby trees are still green, red and orange freckling their branches.

Bodies lay silent in the soil. Their quiet is its own solace. 

But what end waits for Cain, when the inevitable comes to pass and he succumbs to his curse? For one bound as he is, there is no peace. Only darkness. Disease. A promise of madness and a violent death.

He grunts under his breath when another's shoes scrape the dirt. An angel leans against a headstone, legs crossed at the ankles. He lowers his head as if in prayer. But, it isn’t that. His eyes are soft. An apology for the disturbance.

Disruption defines this one. He can’t help himself. “Hello, Castiel,“ Cain says.

“Cain,” the angel greets. “You look well.”

Cain chuckles. “Subdued, you mean.”

“Well,” Castiel repeats.

Cain is not in the mood to argue. He allows Castiel's insistence with a nod. “My life is boring, Castiel. As it should be.” He looks the angel over. "But word of your feats has traveled far.”

“The work is not done.”

Cain hums. “Michael and Lucifer locked away. The world, saved. And you, God’s shiny new sword of justice. Impressive.”

“I need your assistance.”

“Do you?” A smile. “What help could a warrior of Heaven need from a Knight of Hell?”

Castiel looks away. Interesting. 

Always the conundrum, this Castiel. Never predictable like his fellow soldiers. Of one mind, those fools. Cannon fodder for a God who stopped caring long ago. No, this one is broken. Has been for as long as Cain has known of his existence. His oddness makes him intriguing. Dangerously so.

Still, there is nothing good behind this latest meeting. Something is off, even by Castiel’s wayward standards.

Cain kneels to examine a gravestone in more detail. A child, this one. Mina Paulson. Seven years old at the time of her passing. 

“I’m retired, Castiel,” Cain mutters over his shoulder. “Rejoice, as your brothers have.”

“Purgatory.”

Cain turns a narowed eye. “Buried. As it should be.”

Castiel meets his glare without falter. “There is no other way.”

Cain shakes his head. “I’ve heard of your civil war with Raphael.” He stands again, brushing his hands on his pants. “I can’t help you.”

A shift draws Cain's attention; an angel blade appears in Castiel’s hand. It has been many years since Cain has seen such a dagger. An exquisite weapon, precise and pristine. Its promise of blood makes the old, forgotten thing shiver on Cain’s arm.

Cain’s mouth tips upward. “Will you kill me, Castiel?”

“Tell me what I need to know.” Castiel watches him closely. He does not move forward, does not retreat.

“You know I don’t fear that,” Cain says. His eyes flick back to Castiel’s. “And I don’t fear the souls you’ve stolen from Hell.”

“I did not steal them,” Castiel scowls.

Ah, it’s even more complex than Cain imagined. “Borrowed, then?” he amends, intrigue sharp in his eyes. “Who is this new friend of yours, lending from Hell’s bounty?”

“Crowley-”

Cain barks a laugh. “The crossroads demon? Strange times indeed.”

Castiel grits his teeth. Is he frustrated or embarrassed? It’s difficult to tell. “Our alliance is unfortunate but necessary-”

“Even necessary evils come with a price, Castiel.” Cain folds his arms. “I’m proof of that.”

The angel is not in the mood for truth. Castiel’s eyes glow a warning. Cain’s darken in answer.

It’s true, Cain does not fear this thing, but he _is_ curious. How much damage can Castiel do in his present state, belly bursting with borrowed souls? The Mark pulses on Cain’s arm, eager to find out.

Castiel’s jaw clenches. After a moment of consideration, he sheathes his weapon. “You wouldn’t understand,” he mumbles. Petulant, stupid thing.

Cain relaxes into pity. “You're right,” he replies. “I’m just a demon, after all.”

“You’re not like them,” Castiel jumps in. Suddenly, he's nervous.

Cain smiles. “And you’re not like the angels,” he observes. “We’re more alike than you think.”

Castiel’s mouth curls back, snarling disapproval.

Cain breaks their eye contact. Castiel's misguided righteousness exhausts him. He drags fingers along the top of a gravestone. “So much death,” Cain murmurs. “Isn’t there, Castiel?”

A long silence falls between them. Castiel, looks around, aborbing all; open plots, dying grass, wilting trees. 

When he breathes, “Yes,” it’s an exhale to Cain’s ear. They are closer than Cain realized. Unspoken regret wavers on Castiel's lips.

Cain turns towards him. Between them, the breaths of their true beings collide. A web of violent darkness; a beacon of Heaven’s light.

“I don’t have a choice,” Castiel insists, as if he wants Cain to believe him. He needs him to believe.

Cain nods. “May you find peace then,” he says. “Like they have.” He motions towards the gravestones littering the ground.

Cain moves to pass, stepping around the angel’s vessel. But a hand on his shoulder stops him. Castiel's breaths shiver on his jaw. 

“If Raphael succeeds, the world will end,” Castiel hisses.

Cain grazes the hand on his shoulder with his own. “And if you succeed?” he asks. “What then, little bird?”

Castiel disappears in a rustle of hidden wings.

Cain stares into the empty space for a time. His shoulder burns from the angel's touch, by the souls of the damned Castiel carries with him.

Cain steps between the headstones, looking up at the sky. They're all damned in the end, it seems.

*The End*


	5. Black Cats - Dean Winchester/Crowley - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Black Cats  
> Pairing: Dean Winchester/Crowley  
> Warnings: Demon!Dean, explicit sexual content
> 
> At this rate, I'll post all ten parts by Halloween 2016, lol. Enjoy!

Dean came, he saw. He drank, sang, and fought. 

Night cap didn’t materialize though. Waitress grew a conscience. Her loss. 

Some nights, Dean liquors himself up and passes out in his crap motel room. But tonight, he’s jonesing for skin. Bar crowd is the worst though. Douchey, stuck up.

With a sigh, Dean fumbles through his jeans for the hotel key. Twists it in the lock and shoves the door open. The bedside lamp is on. How fucking adorable, the King of Hell is reading in bed. “Honey, I’m home,” he greets, kick-closing the door behind him and shrugging out of his red shirt. He tosses it on the desk chair and rips off his shoes and socks. His jeans are chucked over the shirt. 

Black t-shirt and boxers, Dean crashes on the mattress. He props on a side and grins. Lifts his eyebrows, all suggestion. Usually works. Crowley may be a grouch, but he knows good sex when he’s got it. 

Tonight, Crowley doesn’t even look up.

Dean frowns. Crowley isn’t just pouring over a book. There’s a purple…light…thing. A haze that floats over Crowley’s palm. He shapes it with his other hand. A prod here, a poke there.

“What’s with the hocus pocus?” Dean asks. If it’s a magic stick Crowley’s after, Dean’s got something he’d be more than happy to share...

“You have your own room, remember?”

“Yeah, right,” Dean waves him off. “Don’t be a dick.“ He runs a hand up Crowley’s side. No finesse to it, just shoves his fingers up his ribs. Crowley grumbles his disapproval.

Dean doesn’t mind the grumping, he minds that Crowley still isn’t looking at him! Hello, Dean Winchester in his fucking bedroom. ‘King of Hell’ title counts for a lot, but there’s no way he’s getting any better offers than this tonight.

Dean stops suddenly. His mouth hangs open and his forehead crinkles. He pulls his hand back from Crowley, just fast enough to catch a sneeze. The hell? That only happens when-

Cat. There’s a cat in Crowley’s lap. A little black poof of a kitten, blinking yellow eyes at Dean.

Dean glares at it. "The hell’s the cat for?” he demands.

“Dark magic needs a witness.” Crowley pauses to scritch behind the kitten’s ears. She bumps against his fingers happily. Dean snuffles, offended.

Crowley finally offers him a look, one lacking even an ounce of pity. “Henrietta is minding my handiwork.”

“Yeah well, good for Henrietta,” Dean grumbles. He peels up the edge of his t-shirt, scrubbing eyes that now itch like crazy. “Get rid of it, Crowley. I’m allergic.”

Crowley raises a brow. “Sorry to hear that.” He’s not sorry at all, the prick. “There’s a room down the hall with your name on it.”

Dean scowls. He hates cats. But he’s also deteremined to get laid tonight. Crowley is still his best option, even with this Broom-Hilda shit. 

Dean eyes the cat. Henrietta looks back, then curls up tighter in Crowley’s lap, chin rested on folded paws. “She’s not even watching!” Dean accuses, smothering another sneeze. “Fuck,” he grumbles, scrubbing his nose on his wrist. “The thing’s fucking sleeping, Crowley.”

He glares, eyes tearing, at the handkerchief Crowley drops unceremoniously in his lap. His own focus remains on the purple light. The prodding has turned into…a weird, curled-knuckle stroke. His caress shapes the purple glow, sloping it gently.

Dean knows where that finger _should_ be. Crooked in his ass, lube-slick and stretching. Crowley lives up to the hype in that department. …Fucking cat.

As if sensing his thoughts, Henrietta yawns and stretches. She sets her cheek on Crowley’s crotch, pillowed on the bump of his zipper. “Bitch,” Dean hisses. He foregoes the handkerchief to sneeze into the fold of his elbow.

“Manners, pet,” Crowley mutters.

“Told you to get rid of that thing,” Dean snaps back. "I’ll snot all over your damn room if I feel like it.“

"Lovely.” Crowley goes back to stroking the offensive thing’s head. The cat lifts her chin and nips playfully at his fingers. Dean hates it. His eyes blink black, he hates it so damn much!

But what’s he going to do, tear the pile of lint a new one? Dean sulks for a moment, sniffling in deprived misery.

Then, he lolls his head over, trying a smile. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Crowley snorts. “Worth more than this spell? Like to see you try-” He doesn’t get the sentence out. Dean latches an arm around his shoulders, forcing him into a kiss. 

It’s a bit messy, with a whiskey aftertaste. But the gesture is enthusiastic enough. Crowley allows it. After all, Dean’s wavering loyalty has been Crowley’s greatest concern of late. Any signs of allegiance are positive.

Still, Crowley only lingers a moment before pushing Dean back. “I’m busy,” he grumbles.

Dean pulls off his t-shirt with an aggravated sniffle. Pulls off his boxers. Tosses both to the floor. Completely naked, he lies back down next to Crowley. He licks his hand and puts the wet palm in his lap.

He’s just started to stroke when Crowley glances over. “Really?” Bemused. But interested. His human eyes darken, a tinge of red around the pupils. The haze burns brighter when Dean’s legs split.

Dean tilts his head and smiles his most charming smile. “Spell this good?” he asks. He gives his cock a long stroke, slick with his own saliva. It’s taken no time at all to get good and hard, even with the congestion thick in his voice. 

Dean lifts his waist from the bed. His cock has blushed to a deep pink. Swollen and hard, it bobs over his stomach, enticing.

“Oh, Dean,” Crowley tsks. “You overrate yourself, darling.” 

But he snaps his fingers. The book is gone, as are the kitten and the purple glow of his spell. His own clothes are the next to go, fading with a lazy wave of his hand. 

Nude, Crowley takes the offered space between Dean’s legs. He hovers close, drinking in the sight of him, so thick. Dean’s thumb works beneath his shaft, coaxing at the crown. A touch of wetness weeps at the tip. Crowley’s tongue darts across his lower lip.

“Don’t hear you complaining,” Dean murmurs. He brings his other hand to his mouth. Makes a nice show of licking his fingers.

This freshly wet hand winds around Crowley’s cock and urges him with quick pumps. Crowley shoves his thighs further apart and settles tighter against him. Dean closes his hands over both cocks. Held together, hardness on hardness. The tip of Crowley’s shaft bumps against Dean’s stomach.

Crowley snaps a finger. His own hand, wet. “Don’t need that,” Dean barks.

Crowley scoffs. “Don’t give a damn what you need,” he mutters. “You interrupted me. I’ll do what I w-”

He’s interrupted by one of Dean’s spit-wet hands hooked over the back of his neck. Dean pulls Crowley down, forcing a kiss as his other wet hand slides up Crowley’s cheek. Saliva smears through his beard and up into his hair. 

Dean knows exactly what he’s doing. Eyes closed, expression relaxed like a damn sex puppet.

Crowley allows this distraction, mouth parted to taste between Dean’s offered lips. Dean sucks on his tongue, nipping after it.

His groan of pleasure becomes a grunt when Crowley’s slick finger presses between his legs. The nudge of pressure earns a grumble, but Dean relents. He stretches his legs further. 

When Crowley eases back, his expression is peaceful. Low-lidded eyes, glowing in the light of the bedside lamp. Dean tastes after Crowley with a swipe of his tongue.

Crowley makes a low sound of pleasure, resolve completely broken. Dean smiles. Like candy from a baby. He always gets what he wants.

*The End*


	6. Candy - Dean Winchester/Donna Hanscum (Mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Candy  
> Pairing: Dean Winchester/Donna Hanscum  
> Warning: Sexual content

"Best Halloween ever." 

Dean has a plastic jack-o-lantern full of candy and a sweet to share it with. Said sweet wears a Maid’s outfit that wasn’t stitched to be a sexy. The costume has sleeves and falls to mid-thigh. But Donna fills out the black skirt. Thighs thick and perfect, breasts snug under the neckline. The apron fans over Dean's stomach when she straddles him. 

He puts hands on her waist. “Sure this isn’t Christmas? Must’ve been a good boy this year.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” A wide smile, as an orange-foiled Hershey kiss is unwound. Donna’s thighs squeeze around Dean. “Bet you’ve had some doozies this time of year, with that job of yours.”

“Couple,” Dean says. “Evil scarecrow. And that damn astronaut.”

Donna pauses with the chocolate between her fingers. “What astronaut? Ghost or something?”

“Brat kid. Went after poor Baby.” Dean grumbles at the memory. 

Grumbles until he has chocolate on his bottom lip, pulling it back, urging him to open his mouth. His eyes lower, focused on the candy as it disappears from her fingers. Dean takes it on his tongue, grinning as he chews.

He catches Donna’s hand when she starts to pull back. Kisses her fingertips, inside her hand, her wrist. “Not as sweet as you, babe.”

“Mushball.” Donna snatches her hand back and digs into the jack-o-lantern again. “What’ll we get this time?”

A stretch and a smile. “Let me do you too, huh?”

“Nah,” Donna says. “I’ll live through ya.”

Dean tilts his head. “You sure?” He runs his hands up Donna’s sides. Takes his time strolling fingers down her back. “I love this, you know.”

“Yeah.” For a second, the teasing is gone, a genuine smile and soft eyes. “But I kinda have a thing for watching a man eat, so…”

“Oh - by all means then, lay it on me,” Dean says. He gives her backside a squeeze. “Lay this too, if you want.”

“If I want, huh?”

Dean winks. “You betcha.”

Donna replies with, “Twizzlers.” She unwraps and dangles the licorice thread above Dean’s head. The end swings above his lips, other end plucked between Donna’s fingers.

Dean smirks. Opens his mouth, plucking the tip of the Twizzler between his teeth. He lifts his head to nibble the candy up to her fingers. 

He mock-growls when the Twizzler is pulled out of his range. “C'mon,” grumbled until it’s given to him. Dean nips at Donna’s fingers, a more healthy squeeze of her backside. 

Her hand settles on his chest. Plucks a nipple, making him hum and grind upward. There isn’t much hiding under Donna’s maid skirt, just the thin layer of her panties. Lace. Dean's already hard.

“What next?” Donna wonders. She leans across his chest, scratching through his hair. “Kit Kat? Mini Snickers?”

“Too cheap for the big boy Snickers?” Dean grins. The end of Donna's high ponytail tickles his face.

“Big Boy Snickers are for special occasions,” Donna says.

Dean likes the sound of this. He rests back, sighing contentedly. “Surprise me,” he says. “You’re the best at surprises.”

Donna grabs the jack-o-lantern again. “I am, right? You’re darn lucky, mister.”

“Sure am,” Dean agrees. “…Was that a peppermint patty?”

“Down, boy.” Donna sits back, mischief in her eyes. “If you’re good, maybe.”

“Oh, I can be good.” Affected innocence. Except for the tongue dragged over his lip. “Real good.”

Donna winks and fishes through the candy stash again.

*The End*


	7. Haunted Houses - Benny Lafitte/Castiel - Mature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Haunted Houses  
> Pairing: Benny Lafitte/Castiel  
> Warnings: Sexual content, mention of blood drinking, human!Castiel
> 
> Loose sequel to [Focus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4555161). But you don't need to read that one to understand this one.

It’s a rotten old house. Mold paints the walls and mouse droppings litter the floors. The furniture wears a thick layer of dust. Spider webs sprawl everywhere. No sign of the X-Files yet, but the night is still young.

Benny watches Castiel run through his "How to be a Hunter" routine. He clears the house with a bag of rock salt. Draws sigils and checks for cursed objects. They’ve run a few of these errands since Castiel helped Benny back to the land of the living. Still no explanation for the rescue, by the way.

Benny isn't complaining about the vacation from Monster Land. But this is getting weird, bordering on concerning. It’s been months since Benny has been back topside. Cas hasn’t brought up the Winchesters once. 

To be fair, Cas isn't himself these days either. Full-blood human; warm and enticing.

Benny folds his arms. “Look, I’m all for knocking Casper into next Tuesday, but-”

“This ghost is not friendly,” Cas informs him.

Benny rolls his eyes. “This is Dean's thing, Cas.”

Cas looks angry, sad, and plenty in-between. “I can’t call Dean,” he mutters. “But I can help. Multiple incidents have been reported over the past two weeks. This is something I can do…in this state.” He looks down at himself. Clears his throat. Then, he returns to salting.

“Awful nice of you,” Benny grumbles.

Cas stiffens, but he doesn’t respond. Just keeps on salting and running his EMF-looking thing. Probably put it together himself, poor guy. Benny has an iron pole in hand in case a spook decides to pick a fight. 

Nothing yet, so Benny watches Cas instead. His body is hunched, bowed by the weight on his shoulders. What the weight is, Benny can only guess. Cas never was a big talker.

Benny should find this fun, angel getting knocked down a peg. Only, Benny has started to go soft on the wingnut. The fact that Cas keeps calling him hasn’t helped. Cas never seems happy when Benny is around. But he still dials Benny's number, still asks for his help.

Benny always says yes. He owes Cas for saving his ass. But Benny likes being called too. Hunting has given Benny a purpose again, beyond robbing blood banks and sucking out dead squirrels.

Benny doesn’t care much about hunting evil stuff. He's dealt with enough evil during his life, and after life. But he does care about protecting the morons who do. Dean, for one. And now, this thing. Human. Ex-angel. Stick in the mud.

Benny's steps creak on the damaged floorboards. Cas stands straighter, the closer Benny gets.

Benny snakes his arm around Cas’ waist. Flattens his hand on Cas’ belly. 

Cas blows out a breath. He puts a hand over Benny’s like he means to push him off. But his fingers stay on Benny’s, warm on cold.

“Admit it," Benny nuzzles his nose through Cas' hair. "You ask me on these joy rides ‘cause you like my company.” 

“This is important,” Cas says, voice shaking and interesting. “I need your assistance.”

“Mmhm.” Benny darts his tongue out and tastes Cas' neck. His gums start to tickle in that hungry way. Cas will say yes if Benny asks. Hasn't refused him yet. 

But the blood can wait. Cas’ skin tastes nice too. Sweet. Soft.

“We have work to do,” Cas protests. But it doesn't sound like work is on his mind. He arches when Benny's hand wanders under his shirt. 

Benny’s mouth smears to the side of his throat. Fastens on a tendon, pulled tight and wirey. He sucks slowly, kneading Cas’ belly in time.

Cas hisses, “Benny…” Gets Benny every time.

Benny nibbles up his neck and inhales deep under his jaw. Cas' hips jut forward. Nice. Benny's hand slides down the front of his pants. Half-hard already. Benny smirks and squeezes his shape through his jeans.

Cas bucks towards him. Still getting used to this human thing. Jumpy. Sensitive.

“Betcha kids always get it on in here,” Benny murmurs in Cas’ ear. “Want to catch a ghost? Can’t think of a better way.”

Cas makes a weird, high sound. Not at all like him. But damned if it doesn’t get Benny snug below the belt. 

“You want to use me as bait?” he asks. Benny didn’t mean it quite like this. But Cas sounds into the idea, and if it means Benny gets to keep touching him… 

Besides, let something try to get at Cas. Benny will rip it to shreds. “Nothing’s touching you,” he growls. Even surprises himself.

Angel Castiel would have balked. Didn’t want to be Benny’s crazy aunt, let alone just _Benny's_. But a lot has changed since Purgatory. When Cas murmurs, “All right,” Benny knows he means it.

He grins, teeth flashed against Cas’ ear. “Good,” Benny says. He tightens his grip.

*The End*


	8. Sam Winchester/Castiel - Skeletons - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ~~Ghosts or Witches or~~ Skeletons  
>  Pairing: Sam Winchester/Castiel  
> Warnings: Skeletons, graveyards, awkward hand holding, human!Castiel, alt. Season 9

In the dead of night, the only sound comes from two shovels cutting through dirt. A grunt, and a pause, one shovel propped in the soil. Castiel scrubs his brow with his sleeve. “I stink,” he observes, smiling. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Sam snort-laughs and keeps digging. Digging is safer than watching Cas roll his shoulders or pick at the sweaty clothes sticking to his body. Yeah. Dean’ll be back soon anyway.

Cas lost his grace a few months back. In an instant, everything changed. Cas has to sleep and eat. He has feelings, impulses. Sometimes, his thoughts come out weird, and a little sheepish. Dean and Sam have tried to coach him as best they can. 

Good thing, they're past the early awkwardness, when Cas was embarrassed by every mistake. Now, Cas smiles when he trips up and thanks the brothers for their instruction. “You two are great teachers,” he says.

But a great teacher wouldn’t gawk at Cas’ shirt sticking to his back. Or fixate on the sweat shining on his face. A great teacher wouldn’t stare when Cas comes out of the shower in only his boxers. Wouldn’t gawk at every new emotion overwhelming his face.

Sam pays too much attention, and he notices Cas' breaths laboring. “Water break?” he suggests, just as his shovel hits the casket.

Cas tilts his head. “You sure? We’re close-”

“Yeah. Need a few minutes.“ 

Sam is fine. But Cas’ face relaxes into relief, and Sam knows he's right. Again. Because he’s watching Cas too closely.

Cas sighs when he drinks, like water is the most amazing thing in the world. His Adam’s apple bobs with gusto as he drains half the bottle in one go.

Sam tries, and fails, to ignore him. Just like he fails to ignore how Cas' smiles reach his eyes now. Or that he can't heal himself anymore - knuckles bruised, hand scraped during the hunt. Cas laughed after it happened. His own clumsiness amazed him.

Sam can’t help himself. Every new experience is like getting to know Cas all over again. Sam is happy for him. No doubt, Cas misses what he once was. But he can also be himself now, free of burdens and guilt. Sam, of all people, knows what it's like to carry an impossible weight on your shoulders. 

Cas sticks a crowbar under the coffin lid. The skeleton inside is mostly bone, patches of deteriorating skin sticking to the husk. Cas frowns. "Death is not new to me. But as a human, it seems...what's the word...creepier?”

“I'm with you there,” Sam says. He tosses a pack of matches to Cas and gives a cursory look around. “Coast is clear. Do the honors?”

“Are you sure? You figured out the identity of the spirit. It’s your victory.”

“Come on, you haven’t done one yet.”

Cas nods, excitement and nerves flitting across his face. He plucks a match from the book and strokes it across the back once, twice. It doesn’t light. He tries a third time, a fourth time. When the match snaps in half, Cas chuckles. “It looks so simple when you do it.”

“Here.” Sam joins him on the other side of the plot. He doesn’t really think when he takes Cas’ hands and guides them back to the matchbook. “More of a wrist flick. Like this.” Sam sweeps Cas' hand with the match over the rough side. A flame sparks on the end.

Cas looks at Sam thoughtfully. He drops the lit match into the plot.

“I, uh-” Sam pulls his hands back.

Cas catches them, pressing Sam's hands together and folding his on top. An echo of their first encounter, _Sam Winchester - the boy with the demon blood._

“Thank you for teaching me, Sam,” Cas says. Sam looks at their joined hands.

He finally manages to pull them back, jamming his fingers into his pockets. Smoke rises from the open grave. “Anytime,” he mumbles. “We should, uh…get out of here in case the guards see. Dean’ll meet us by the car.”

“Yes, of course.” Cas’ smile is different. Puzzled. Curious.

He leads the way back to the Impala. Sam clears his throat and follows.

*The End*


	9. Full Moon - Lucifer/Castiel - General Audiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Full Moon  
> Pairing: Lucifer/Castiel  
> Warnings: Angelcest, Pre-Fall
> 
> I'm keeping up my pace to post these on AO3 before Halloween 2016, haha ;)

"Night" is what Father calls it. It is darkness hazed in a silver glow. A moon orbits this planet, an all-seeing eye reflecting on the sleepy current of low-tide. Waves lap the sand with white-frosted tongues.

Lucifer stands on the shore, hands linked behind his back. Castiel tenses. Soldiers of his rank are not permitted on the surface without permission.  
  
But even now, punishment looming, Castiel does not regret his decision. This world is a beautiful thing. Every piece, intricate in its design. The richness of the sand. The whisper of a breeze through nearby trees. Stars, mere jewels in the forest of Earth’s sky.

Still, this beauty cannot diminish the light of Castiel's brother. Even at this distance, Lucifer resonates. Castiel's wings betray his presence with an answering rustle.

“Come, Castiel.” Lucifer's voice is softer than Michael's, Gabriel's, or Raphael's.

Castiel approaches as ordered and fills the space beside Lucifer. Rainbow fish laze beneath the ocean's surface.

“Forgive me, brother,” Castiel says. “I could not stay away. The moon-”

“I also find it beautiful.” Lucifer looks at Castiel. Castiel’s thoughts become yellows and pinks.

“We are not allowed in this world without permission-”

“You have my permission, little one.” Lucifer offers this gift without reservation or anger.

Castiel lowers his head. “Thank you. I’ll leave you to your meditation.”

“No.” Lucifer leans closer. “This light suits you,” he says.

“I don’t want to disturb-”

“Stay with me, Castiel.” Lucifer's hand drapes across the back of Castiel’s neck. His touch is cool, oddly soft. 

Castiel takes stock of his own reactions. He admires his brother, brave and loyal. His acceptance is gratifying. But Castiel senses other things too. More dangerous things.

“You're a peculiar one.” Lucifer speaks, as if able to hear his thoughts. “Unlike the others.”

Castiel has wondered, and worried, this same thing about himself. To hear the suspicion from an archangel stirs a whole new level of shame. “I’ll repent to my superiors immediately-”

“Don’t.” Lucifer punctuates the word with hands on Castiel’s face. “You're special, Castiel.”

Castiel is too taken with his brother's eyes to be concerned by the idea.

What would it be like to feel Lucifer? Not just like this, Lucifer’s hands on his face. But to _feel_ him? Two lights crossing in the night. 

Lucifer’s mouth twitches. He traces thumbs across Castiel’s cheeks. A shiver trembles through Castiel's wings.

“Do you feel, little brother?” Lucifer wonders.

“Yes.”

“Cold?”

Castiel nods, eyes large with worry. “Yes. And warm. What is it?”

Lucifer moves his hands from Castiel’s face to the small of his back. One wanders up to tug a feather on Castiel's wing. It does not hurt, but Castiel still gasps.

“Did that hurt?” Lucifer asks. 

“No.” Castiel's head tilts. “It feels...pleasant.”

“Pleasant how?” Lucifer plucks the feather again, and twists.

Castiel's teeth clench. “I feel...close to you, Lucifer.”

Lucifer laughs. “You are close to me, little one.”

Castiel sucks in a nervous breath. “Is this sin?”

Lucifer smiles and lets his hand wander through Castiel’s wings. They pale beside Lucifer's; a grand, commanding white. But Castiel's black wings are memorable. Simple but proud.

Castiel arches towards Lucifer’s touch. He tucks his face against his brother’s.

“Speak your mind, Castiel.”

“You are beautiful, brother,” Castiel says. “Strong-”

“Thoughts,” Lucifer chides, “not flattery.”

“Brave,” Castiel adds. He glances at the curse on his brother's arm. “You carry a great burden-”

“Kiss me, Castiel.” Lucifer takes Castiel's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

Castiel has seen kisses. To feet. Hands. Cheeks. Somehow, he knows this is not what Lucifer wants. Tentative, he presses his lips to Lucifer’s. The light of the Morningstar surges beneath him.

Lucifer wraps Castiel in his arms, and Castiel delights. His brother is so cold. The chill of his power makes Castiel shudder. He closes his eyes, drifting into his brother’s light. The moon, the stars, nothing else matters. 

Apprehensive fingers dare to bury in Lucifer's wings.

When Lucifer leaves his lips, Castiel bites back a demand for more. He swallows the air of the new world greedily.

“Good,” Lucifer murmurs.

Castiel’s stomach twists. His brother’s eyes are like treasure pools in the moon's glow. “Am I yours?” Castiel asks. He does not know why. He is Father’s, and the Garrison’s. To suggest otherwise is blasphemous.

Lucifer smiles. "Careful, Castiel." He runs a hand across Castiel’s face. 

Castiel licks his lips. He swears, Lucifer's eyes darken at the gesture. 

Lucifer pulls Castiel close and kisses him again. The curse on his arm pulses red. No one notices.

*The End*


	10. Costumes - Castiel/Crowley - Teen & Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Costumes  
> Pairing: Crowley/Castiel  
> Warnings: Season 10, mild sexual content, jealousy

It’s settled then. Mommy Dearest’s trail is cold, no thanks to the simpletons Crowley calls his subjects. They need any leads they can get. 

The Grand Coven has been in disarray since Olivette found herself a bit smaller and furrier. But the annual Halloween Gala is a go, because witches never turn down an excuse for a costume party.

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says, because he never understands anything. “If the goal is to get information from the new leader, why bother dressing up?”

“These are not your dime-a-dozen Broom-Hildas,” Crowley replies. “Waltzing in unannounced won’t fly with this crowd.”

“Pagan traditions are not my strong suit,” Castiel grumbles. He has not been a fan of this idea from the start. “One year, Dean’s car was vandalized by an astronaut.”

Crowley snorts a laugh. Poor little Squirrel  
.  
Castiel continues, “There is a human tradition of cutting eye holes in a blanket-”

“No.”

Castiel frowns. “Perhaps I could be a honey bee?”

Crowley waves a disgusted hand. “You’re useless, you know that?”

Scorn flashes in Castiel's pretty blue eyes. “What should I be then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Slap on some cardboard wings and a halo. More of an angel than you are now.“

Castiel’s mouth opens. The taunt stings, Crowley can tell. If he weren't the King of Hell, he might feel a touch of remorse. But he _is_ the King of Hell...

“Be a bloody demon for all I care," Crowley mutters. "Just don’t screw this up like you always do." He disappears before the angel can say another word.

***

The costume party is a meager affair, if Crowley does say so himself. Sure, the gala is held in a grand ballroom surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. A circular mahogany bar stands in the center of the space. Money and ego drip from well-manicured fingernails. But the liquor selection is rather shoddy. And one would think a crowd of the most renowned witches in the world would be…better looking?

Castiel has not shown yet, because Castiel is a disaster. Crowley uses this opportunity to evaluate the scene. He makes a fine fake vampire, dressed in all black with a cape. The plastic fangs are in his pocket, ridiculous things. 

Crowley scans the room. Most of the assembled are nobodies, barely a blip on his power-hungry radar. But when The Master arrives, Crowley feels him immediately. Dark strength oozes from his pores. Olivette’s second-in-command, Crowley would bet his kingdom on it. The Master’s costume is Wesley Snipes in Blade. Hey, they’ll have the fake fangs in common.

Crowley downs the rest of his scotch and winces. Nasty stuff, this cheap booze. He takes a breath and puts on his most charming smile. Crowley has his opening, as the Masters observes the crowd.

But his target does not meet his gaze. Instead, he turns to the blonde at his side. An associate no doubt, in a frilly maid costume. "Who is that?” Crowley overhears.

“No name,” she replies. “Great trick with his eyes.”

Crowley’s chance is gone. The Master takes two glasses of wine from the tray of a passing waiter and approaches the bar. More specifically, the man leaning against it. Black suit, expertly tailored. Black tie. A red devil horn pasted on each temple. Castiel. He reclines against the bar, affecting boredom. Not like him at all. Crowley jerks to a stop.

The Master offers the wine. Castiel accepts with a smile, blue eyes piercing with interest. Crowley’s surprise turns to irritation. 

The target swoops in, hovering over Castiel at the bar. The fool angel lets him. He lazily shifts a foot between the witch's legs, wine glass dangling from his fingers. Effortless sophistication.

His own advance thwarted, Crowley approaches the maid instead. “Pardon for eavesdropping, love. That devil over there. You said he does a trick with his eyes?”

The maid gives him a bored look. Thinks she’s above Crowley, insignificant little tart. Crowley should turn her to ash. 

Instead, he smiles. “I’m learning the craft, you see. Might make a nice trick at my niece’s birthday party.”

Her face goes even more slack. “Too scary for a kid.” She rolls her eyes, not interested in continuing the conversation. Neither is Crowley, who turns just in time to see Castiel’s blue eyes blink shut. When they re-open, they are demon black. 

It isn’t real. Castiel’s true nature is still visible to Crowley, his broken wings folded gently at his back.But the eyes are uncanny! Even Crowley chokes on a breath. 

Unfortunately for Crowley, the Master is just as riveted. He places a hand on Castiel’s stomach. A laugh mingles between them as Castiel’s eyes return to their natural blue. Crowley will do an eye trick of his own if his hand stays on Castiel much longer…

But it does stay, through two more glasses of wine and an increasingly vibrant conversation. Worse, the hand drifts lower, hooking under Castiel’s belt. His fingers disappear to the second knuckle. Castiel’s waist rises just enough for Crowley to see, eyes low-lidded, a darker blue.

The Master whispers in his ear. With a blink, Castiel’s eyes become black slits. They smolder under his lashes as he turns to meet the target’s kiss. 

It is a brief meeting, easy smiles an inch apart. Crowley cracks the glass of scotch he has been attempting to force down. He’s had just about enough of this.

Empty wine glasses are left on the counter. Castiel and the target walk hand-in-hand to the elevators. Crowley seethes and follows, punching the elevator’s "up" button repeatedly. The Penthouse, no doubt. He jabs that button too, cursing at how slow the damn contraption moves. He won’t blow his cover transporting, but he is tempted.

It takes a small eternity to reach the top floor. When he does, he marches in, ready to raise some Hell of his own!

Only to find the Master unconscious on the ground. Castiel lies on a circular bed, horns off but the rest of his ensemble in place. “He had these,” Castiel says, shaking a pair of log books. “Observations. Locator spells. They’re trying to find Rowena too.”

“You…” Crowley jabs a finger at him, but he has no threat to go with it.

Castiel tilts his head. “Was my costume inadequate?”

Crowley scowls. “Where did you learn to act like that?”

Castiel frowns. “You…said to be a demon. I was.” So fascinating that, for a moment, Crowley forgets to be angry. 

But he doesn’t forget to ask, “What about the black eyes?”

“This?" Castiel blinks. Demon black eyes replace his human blue. "Eye color change,” Castiel explains. "It would not fool your kind or mine. But witches can't perceive our true bodies. A good party trick.“

Crowley agrees. He shows his appreciation by climbing onto the bed, and onto Castiel.

Castiel tilts his head. "Does this affect, you, Crowley?”

“Shut up,” Crowley grumbles. “Do it again.”

Castiel sighs but obliges. A blink later, Crowley’s eyes meet marble black.

Crowley growls and grabs Castiel’s tie, tearing him off the bed and up to his mouth. Castiel doesn’t complain, sliding his hands under Crowley’s cape. “They’re not real,” he reminds. “I’m still an angel-”

“I don’t care.” Crowley unlaces Castiel’s tie and rips through his shirt buttons.

Castiel arches towards his hands. “That - mm, that man is unconscious on the floor, Crowley-”

“I. Don’t. Care.” Crowley tears Castiel’s shirt off and clenches a fist in his hair. He revels in the angel’s hiss and feasts on his mouth again.

So caught up in tasting his prize, Crowley is not prepared to be flipped. Castiel is all smirk and black eyes when he descends. Crowley barely manages “Yes” before Castiel kisses him again.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) :)


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